Talk about laying on a guilt trip. “Where were you thinking of going?” Rebecca asked grudgingly.
Jennifer’s upbeat response implied that she took this as a positive sign. “Australia. I’ve booked an apartment in Mooloolaba near where we camped that time when Jack was a toddler, remember?”
How could she forget? She’d always hated bloody camping, but Mark, with all the enthusiasm of a first-time dad, had gotten it into his stupid head that Jack needed to experience the great outdoors. A cabin in the Big Four chain of camping grounds on the Sunshine Coast didn’t qualify as the great outdoors, in Rebecca’s opinion. Then again, so long as she wasn’t sleeping in a tent she wasn’t going to argue the point. Besides, she was tagging along for free as Jack’s unofficial nanny. In hindsight, she should have known there was no such thing as a free ride because Jack had been a wee demon. She’d been run ragged with trips to the playground and pool, not to mention hauling him out of the communal toilet block on numerous occasions due to his obsession with the urinal. All the while, Jennifer had lounged on the deck of her and Mark’s self-contained cabin with a book while Mark fetched and carried. It had struck Rebecca then that life was easy when you were beautiful like Jennifer. People gravitated towards you and ran around after you just like she was doing. It didn’t sound as though she was being offered a free ride this time round either.
“Please, Rebecca.” Jennifer’s wheedling brought her back to the present. “Mark and I have discussed it and agreed that we’ll pay your airfare and match your wages.”
“That’s very generous of you both,” Rebecca replied with more than a hint of sarcasm as she slid her bare feet into her slippers and padded back out to the kitchen. She was in desperate need of coffee. “What about Mum and Dad? Why can’t they do it?”
Thousands of miles away, Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Because,” she replied as though she were talking to a simpleton, “they won’t be around. They’re off on their cruise. You didn’t forget, did you?” She snippily carried on, “Besides, I haven’t told them what’s happened, and I don’t want you to either. They’d only cancel their trip, and you know how long they’ve been planning it. You don’t want them to cancel, do you?”
Why did Jen always have to imply she was selfish? If anyone was selfish, it was her laying it on that thick but then she’d always been Queen Manipulator when it came to getting her way. “No, of course, I didn’t forget the cruise.” She’d been so caught up in her plans for the Galway Races that she had clean forgotten about it, but she wasn’t about to admit it and give her sister more ammunition. “And you know full well I wouldn’t want them to miss it.”
So that was that, and there it was: the moment when they both knew her coming home was a foregone conclusion.
“I DON’T BELIEVE IT! I just don’t believe it! Not Mark with his secretary? That’s, that’s—well, that’s just sad!” spluttered Melissa. Despite having just done a Body Burn class, she was spread out on their lime-green two-seater, looking as pristine as a sportswear model. Mark’s affair had temporarily overridden any interest in her best friend’s nocturnal activities.
A very small consolation prize, Rebecca reflected as she reached for one of the salted peanuts she’d poured into a bowl with hopes of an energy boost.
Melissa stormed on. “Poor old Jennifer. Mind you, I always did think your sister and her hubby’s life was just a bit too Barbie and Kenish.” Studying her long painted fingernails for any signs of chipping, she added thoughtfully, “Still, I wouldn’t wish this on her.”
Rebecca threw a peanut at her. “That’s very magnanimous of you, but I’d hardly go so far as to call Mark a Ken.”
“Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca.” Melissa flicked the peanut off her track pants onto the floor. “The phrase ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ was invented for your brother-in-law. Any red-blooded secretary with 20/20 vision and no morals would leap at the chance to get into his underdaks.”
“Melissa!” Rebecca nearly choked on her peanut. “That’s disgusting!”
“Maybe, but it’s also true. You’ve just never been able to see it. As far as you’re concerned, there isn’t a man in the universe who would be good enough to fit into your sister’s perfect life.”
Rebecca childishly rebutted, “Well, I was right where he is concerned.”
“Maybe so, but you’d do well to remember your sister isn’t perfect. Nobody is.”
Melissa brushed her fashionably long fringe out of her eyes and looked hard at her friend. Rebecca’s heart-shaped face and perfectly respectable nose accented a wide and sensual mouth, which totally belied her best feature—large and expressive hazel eyes. She was very pretty, she thought; maybe not in the classically sculpted way that Jennifer was but in her own uniquely quirky way that, in her opinion, was far more attractive. For as long as she’d known her, Rebecca had been drawing unfavourable comparisons between herself and her sister, and she’d had enough of it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Becs—”
Uh-oh, Rebecca thought, not liking the sound of where this was heading but nodding her head and finding herself saying “okay” nonetheless.
“It’s just that ever since I have known you, you’ve had this enormous chip on your shoulder where Jennifer is concerned, and I don’t get it.”
“No, I haven’t!”
Melissa’s raised hand stopped Rebecca from going off.
“Calm down. I am not having a go at you; I’m simply trying to tell you a few home truths. Will you let me finish?”
Rebecca refused eye contact but managed a sulky nod.
“Like I was saying, you’ve always had this thing where Jennifer’s concerned that she’s the prettier sister, the more successful one, and I have never been able to understand why. You’ve got loads going for you, but you need to step out from her shadow, Becs, and stop holding her up as this impossible role model.”
Shoving a handful of peanuts in her mouth, Rebecca was silent as she chewed agitatedly, mulling over what Melissa had just said. Maybe she was a tiny bit in awe of Jennifer.
When they were little, she’d always been the podgy kid who got picked on at school and Jen had always been there to stick up for her. Nobody was allowed to upset her Becka-boo, as the family used to call her. She had idolised her older, beautiful sister back then, even when she found her niche with dance. It had been a surprise to everyone but most of all to herself when the baby fat dropped off, and she had blossomed into a ballerina. She was a talented one at that, too. As they’d grown, though, and Jennifer had begun to shine on her chosen path, the realisation had dawned on her that she was never quite going to make the grade when it came to dancing. That’s when they’d kind of just drifted apart. If she were honest with herself, a seed of resentment had begun to sprout as she had sat back and watched as Jennifer’s life panned out exactly how she wanted it to, unlike her own.
The only blip on Jennifer’s life plan had been that brief tussle with the baby blues when Jack was born. Apart from that, her older sister had led a pretty charmed existence to date. Jennifer was the prettier, more successful sister, and that was all there was to it. It was a fact she had learned to accept and live with because nobody had ever said her name with the reverence in which they breathed Jennifer’s name:
“The Jennifer Carlton of Cuisine with Carlton’s—of course I’ve heard of her. Wasn’t she on the cover of the Woman’s Weekly not long ago?” Instead, with Rebecca it was: “Who? Rebecca Loughton? Oh, do you mean the Jennifer Carlton’s sister?”
Jennifer’s love affair with cooking had begun early, and she could always be found standing at the kitchen bench. With her sleeves rolled up, and her arms sunk into a bowl of dough, their mother would hover back and forth overseeing as she set about making scones for morning tea.
As a young girl, her idea of heaven had been helping their mother plan one of her many dinner parties. Pamela Loughton lived to entertain, and mother and eldest daughter would perch themselves at her pride an
d joy—a polished mahogany table that seated six—for hours, plotting. Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside them, Rebecca’s task was to turn the paper napkins into swans for the table arrangement. From under her lashes, she’d watch the way their two heads were bent companionably together, discussing the merits of brandy snaps over éclairs. In a bid for attention, she’d make the swans look more like ugly ducklings, spoiling the afternoon for them all.
By the time she was at intermediate school, Jennifer was a whiz at home economics. Mrs Manly never got over the disappointment when Rebecca didn’t follow in her golden-haired sister’s footsteps. She never even got past the basics of making fudge, having been far too busy practising her pliés and dreaming of herself pirouetting centre stage instead of stirring. Hers had been the only batch in Room 4 that wouldn’t set. It had still tasted pretty good, though.
While Jennifer shined through high school without so much as a sneaky cigarette in the toilets or a day’s truancy, her little sister had regularly participated in both activities after failing her all-important Grade 9 ballet exam. That little setback had knocked her off course and instead of taking it on the chin and trying again, she’d thrown in the towel and admitted defeat. Besides, at sixteen there was much more fun to be had at parties than practising to be something she knew she just didn’t have the raw talent to be.
The difference between them was something Rebecca had often pondered, coming to the conclusion that Jennifer had been focused from the minute she graduated school and accepted an apprenticeship at Sophia’s Brasserie in the central city. On the other hand, Rebecca had strolled out of the school gates and boarded a raft that would sail her down life’s unstable river. Instead of taking the oars and steering it confidently through the rapids, she’d let it drift in no particular direction, never mooring up at any one thing for very long.
Jennifer completed her apprenticeship and set about making a name for herself in Christchurch before jumping the ditch to begin working as a head chef in one of Sydney’s five-star hotels. That’s how she met Mark. Over from Christchurch on business, he’d been staying in the hotel and, having finished the best meal he had ever eaten, asked to pay his compliments to the chef.
It was just the sort of thing the pompous git would do, Rebecca had decided as she examined his over-the-top good looks upon their first meeting.
Proposing on a gondola in Venice was just the sort of thing the cheesy git would do, she thought one year later when her sister announced their engagement. Jennifer had bleated on and on about how romantic the proposal had been while Mark stood with his arm wrapped proprietarily around her, grinning like one of those idiot clowns at a funfair. If she’d had a ball handy, Rebecca would have stuffed it in his mouth.
The wedding—well, that was as close to hell as Rebecca wanted to get. Jennifer had glowed in a stylish champagne gown that set off her lithe frame to perfection. Joanne and Angela, waitresses at the hotel she was working at, had been picked as bridesmaids for their photogenic qualities and indeed they were ethereal in smoked pink. Rebecca, who had been going through a particularly curvaceous period in her life, had felt like an overfed salmon. One who’d forgotten to run the rapids as she’d trooped dutifully up the aisle behind her sister.
The newlyweds had worked and travelled before settling down to the serious business of being married and starting a family. Rebecca remembered when Jennifer had arrived on her doorstep one sunny Saturday morning, jiggling baby Jack on her hip, to announce that she was going to realise her dream and open a cooking school. “I’m going to call it ‘Cuisine with Carlton’s—Living, Learning, and Loving Food.’ What do you think—catchy?”
Perhaps a good sister would have gushed over the idea despite her concerns. It was fairly obvious this was the response Jennifer was seeking as she stood there looking in need of bolstering, but instead of answering her with enthusiasm, Rebecca’s face creased with genuine worry. “But what about Jack? He’s not even a year old yet. Won’t it be too much?”
Jennifer hadn’t been right since Jack was born. Tired and tearful, motherhood was the only role she hadn’t seemed to adjust to with ease. How on earth did she think she was going to manage Jack and a major project? Rebecca had chewed at her bottom lip anxiously as Jennifer replied curtly, “We’ll manage, thanks.”
Not one to be put off, Rebecca demanded, “Well, what does Mark think about it all?” Surely he would have noticed the changes in his wife’s behaviour since Jack’s arrival and would be all for her taking things easy and concentrating on her son for a while, but apparently not.
“He thinks it’s a fantastic idea,” had been the firm reply that said the subject was now closed to discussion.
Indeed, Mark had backed Jennifer’s new venture all the way. Never uttering a word of protest about them moving from Christchurch where his architectural firm based itself to Akaroa. Jennifer had fallen in love with the small seaside village’s breathtaking harbour views, café lifestyle, and mix of French colonial architecture. It was Jennifer’s ideal location. Mark had smiled indulgently, telling everyone that it would be great for Jack, growing up in the country, and that the commute wasn’t that bad—only an hour and a half drive each way.
Rebecca’s trip down memory lane hit a stop sign just then as Melissa’s voice took on the nasal twang she adopted when feeling under stress.
“Oh my gosh, I just remembered—what about the races? We’ve had that planned for ages!”
Chapter Three
REBECCA WAS STILL A tad peeved with her so-called buddy and her home truths, and so she spat, “There’s nothing stopping you going.”
Melissa’s whingeing twang grew more pronounced. “But I don’t know any of the others well enough to go without you.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes! You’re a big girl, aren’t you?”
“You’re just annoyed because of what I said.”
“No I’m not, because what you said was a load of old codswallop.”
“Truth hurts, Becs.”
“Get stuffed.”
They sat in frosty silence as Melissa picked up the remote and began channel surfing, an act she knew her friend found irritating.
Rebecca screwed her eyes up tight and rubbed her temples; she didn’t need this. Falling out with Melissa was the last thing she was in the mood for tonight and having been down this road, she knew she’d have to be the one to hold out the olive branch.
“Maybe Tamara would like to go to the races with you in my place?” Rebecca thought she’d hit the jackpot with that one until Melissa, placing the remote back down on the coffee table, shot her a scathing look.
“Hardly. She’d be mobbed. You seem to forget that Tamara is a superstar.”
That was a bit over-the-top, but Rebecca opted not to voice this thought. She remained quiet until, as befitted her current churlish mood, Melissa stuck out her bottom lip and said, “Well, she is.”
Too knackered for an argument, Rebecca left it at that. Tamara’s fame did stretch across Ireland, after all.
“So you tell me what exactly it is I am supposed to do while you’re away?” Melissa demanded, her tantrum now wearing Rebecca’s nerves thin.
Bloody typical Melissa, Rebecca fumed, wondering—as she often found herself doing—at their rather one-sided friendship. They’d met on the very first day of high school when their form mistress, Miss Duncan, hauled them both aside for wearing eyeliner. If Rebecca closed her eyes, she could still conjure up the teacher’s high-pitched whine as she shrilled, “Eyeliner! I see eyeliner! Go and wash it off, girls, and I don’t want to see either of you wearing it again.”
There was nothing like a little bit of teenage rebellion to forge a friendship on and the girls had made it their daily challenge to get past their form mistress with their blue eyeliner intact.
That was then, and this was now—though, Rebecca had to admit to finding a comforting solidarity in their both being manless and childless.
It was this same single status
plus their friend Nicola’s effusive emails on the merits of life in the Emerald Isle that sent them winging their way over to Dublin. Where, as the new millennium rolled in, the Celtic Tiger had begun to roar.
Girls, Nicola had emailed, you should come over and check it out for yourselves; the craic’s great.
“The what?” they’d typed back.
It means the fun—the enjoyment, Nicola had translated, and the seed was planted.
What would they be leaving behind, after all? Okay, so they shared a smart Christchurch townhouse close to the mall and Hagley Park. They were spoilt for choice with the local restaurants and cafés, but they were also stuck in the cycle of renting. House prices had gone through the roof of late and here was a chance to double their money by saving some Irish Punt for a deposit while having a bit of fun. Job-wise, they were both in a rut. Rebecca had had enough of feeling like the oldest legal secretary in town. Melissa’s position as PA to a smooth-talking property developer had also lost its gloss once she realised her boss’s only son and heir was spoken for.
“I feel old,” Rebecca had moaned the last time they’d bravely ventured into the city for a night out. Seeing a line of youngsters all chomping at the bit to get into the latest night spot, she’d had to fight the urge not to tap one of the girls on the shoulder. She wanted to tell her to get herself off home and put a thermal on before she caught her death. Yes, they’d agreed, it was time to accept the fact that their knights in shining armour might take a bit longer than originally planned to rock up on their white chargers. It was time to take some responsibility for their lives. Besides, weren’t women of independent means extremely attractive to the opposite sex? That argument had won the debate and so, they’d packed in their jobs and their non-existent boyfriends to wing their way over to the birthplace of both U2 and Ronan Keating.
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